


Shades of Purple

by RyMagnatar



Category: Homestuck, InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Crossover, I Don't Even Know, M/M, crack ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A casual meeting with one of violet blood means more than you expected, but the moment you drag him away alone his fate is sealed and you never invest yourself in something so perishable. Indigo smeared in brown comes to you in exhaustion and in the end, you give him comfort in death as he succumbs to ever present grinding of time.<br/>You are the red-blooded, white-as-a-lusus Sesshomaru and time has always been on your side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shades of Purple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kattenprinsen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattenprinsen/gifts).



You stand alone in the hallway, just outside the cathedral room. A new painting has been done on the wall- made in teal and rich rust brown. You have been summoned to examine it, to give it a yay or nay of worth. If you like it, it stays, if you hate it, the painter is killed.

It’s a fun game, and it keeps you occupied while your mind is busy on other things.

The far door opens and the sharp sound of boots on stone make you turn and glance over. You’ve already decided you hate the painting- there is no point in looking anymore. A tall troll with two jagged horns curling back from his head and a vicious, angry sneer on his face, walks towards you.

Or rather, he’s walking towards the cathedral room. You are simply in the way.

Your white mokomoko drapes around your shoulders, the way your mother wore hers, to keep it from dragging on the floor. Other than that you wear a black kimono with your mate’s marking in gilded indigo on the back. Your tailor, also a troll, loves the demands you make of her. Your clothing is so foreign and new she croons with joy over each silken ensemble.

With your silver hair braided loosely, bound up with indigo ribbon, you know how strangely effeminate you look. On one hand, that is something you think should bother you. On the other, gender seems to matter little in this world and so does fashion.

This troll walking towards you, though, wears armor cut and tailored to his form. The jewelry he wears and the bright purple of his clothing screams wealth to you. He slows to a stop as he sees you and you arch your eyebrow.

“I had heard-“ he starts, his voice somewhat strange. It’s like listening the rolling ocean waves. You actually find that somewhat attractive. He shakes his head and begins walking again, ignoring you.

You will not have that. As he grows closer you step nearer and put your hand up on his chest. Something _electric_ crackles over your skin and you know he feels it for his pupils dilate and his body freezes. He looks at you, confused, wide eyed.

You lick your lips and watch as he swallows. He takes a step back from you, looking at you like you are dangerous. What you are doing is dangerous, but you are bored. You have time, so much time, and you are so very, very bored.

You step closer, grip a handful of his shirt and lean in. He goes rigid, hand up to grip your wrist, “Aren’t you matesprits wwith—“

“You will shut up now,” the words fall from your lips like a purr, “And follow me.” The room you choose is not so far away. One of the ‘interrogation’ rooms where your mate has people dragged off to be beaten until they talk. You think for a second he won’t follow but then he does. He steps into the room warily, looking around. It is empty now. You step up close to him, backing him to the door, and reach for him.

He sucks in his breath and you brush his side as you lock the door.

He doesn’t move off the door, palms pressed against the door and spine rigid.

This stupid bastard is going to need help, you decide, to loosen up. So you drop down to your knees and work on his pants. He makes this strange noise that is awfully like a squeak and tries to tug them back into place. You just roll your eyes and plant your mouth on his skin. He gives a moan that shoots right down your spine to your groin in a way that your mate’s never does. You were right when you pulled him into this room. There was something different-special- _right_ about him.

You know your heat will do wonders to him, that it already is, because the hands that were fighting you slide into your hair instead.

You pull down those pants, impossibly tight and soft, down to his knees. You bathe his inner thighs in licks and his hip joint with your kisses. You personally love the sheath on these trolls. It hides their curious, tasty, colorful little bulge so well.

You press your mouth to the opening, your tongue sliding under the slit and making him moan, loudly. He’s cooler inside than your mate is, but his bulge is no less active. You entice it out with your tongue until the violet bulge is sliding out and coiling in front of your face. That color he wears around his shoulders is so much brighter with this organ and it’s a color you find yourself very suddenly fond of.

One swipe up the underside of it makes him groan and a second one makes him arch his back. You feel his legs shaking and use your hands to hold him up. Your claws prick his skin as you push him back against the door, supporting him when he couldn’t support himself. His hands twist in your hair as you suck his bulge into your mouth.

His taste is different than your mate’s. It’s saltier. It’s like the ocean, like fish, like good sweet meat. You can’t help but groan around him. That makes him start panting, gasping for breath above you as you work your mouth up and down on that twisting organ. He moans and whimpers and you seal your lips around him and suck.

Hips buck up against your hands and you shove him back hard again. You pull your head up and off of him, lick at the dripping purple tip and smirk up at him. The expression his has is all lust and no fear. “More,” He gasps out, “Fuck, you’re aaaAHHh!”

While he was talking your lips were moving and now your tongue is dipped between the folds of his nook thing. He thumps as he hits his head on the door and his legs are shaking. He keeps whimpering out the words _more_ and _please oh cod please_ as you work your tongue deeper, press your mouth harder against him.

When you pull back, your mouth dripping purple, and look up at him. “You are going to love this next part, pretty purple boy.”

You take your hands away and he slides down the wall until he rests on your knees. Purple writhing tentacle and dripping nook would stain your clothes if they weren’t already black. You shove his pants farther down, wrestle off a boot and finally get him situated on your thighs. He gets his breath back as you busy yourself with clothing. You pull at the sash around your waist and tug open your loose kimono. “The fuck is that,” his voice is deep, breathless, and gives you shivers down your spine.

You slide purple splattered fingers over your cock and purr, “You didn’t figure out I wasn’t like you just from my face? I’m a mammal. Different biology.”

You will never get over the way trolls stare at you like you’re the alien. It’s why you go out around naked from time to time. They ogle and flush and stare at you. This one swallows and looks at your flushed cock with curiosity and lust. It takes him two seconds to realize where you’re going with this. He shifts his hips, widens his thighs and growls, “Do it, put it in me right the fuck noww.”

You laugh and do just that. He’s slick and cold inside but you’re used to that at this point.

Lust overcomes you and you fuck him into the door. He thumps against the metal and moans louder and louder as he claws at your shoulders and buries his fingers into your hair and howls in pleasure. You fuck him and twist your fingers around his bulge and _squeeze_ and he keens and cums all this purple violet over himself, over you. He’s got more in him than your mate usually does, like he’s been holding back for a while. You croon to him, thrusting into him as he clenches around you and writhes against the door.

Pushing hard into him, you finally climax, snarling and biting into his neck. He _screams_ as you tear something in his neck. Oops. Heh.

As you finish driving into him, he goes limp against the door and drags in deep breath. The violet blood drips down his neck and soaks into his shirt. He looks at you and you raise your purple covered hand. He stares at you as you clean your fingers, slowly, lapping up the genetic fluid.

“You had somewhere you were going?” you say to him, your hands clean. You pull out of him, he grunts. You lick your lips and purr as he shifts against the door.

“Wwhat. Oh fuck, right. I have to go see the Highblood.” He runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily. You shuffle back on your knees and watch in amusement as he looks around for a cloth. Wryly, you offer the fur of your mokomoko. You like the smear of bright purple on the white fur and he quickly cleans himself up and pulls on his pants and boots. Huffing out a sigh, he slides himself up the door to a standing position. You take back the fur and wrap it around your shoulders.

“His love of blood color must be rubbing off on me,” you murmur as you stroke the stained fur.

He glances at you in confusion and you offer him a smirk, “When you finish with him, come find me again, purple blood. I would love to show you so much more of what I’m capable of.”

His dark tongue licks over his lips and he nods. You wave your hand, satiated and happy, as he goes out through the door.

You stay in the room for a few minutes longer before stretching out your back and standing up. You stretch out your shoulders and fix your kimono around your hips. You slide out of the room and to the hallway and right into the chest of your mate.

Indigo and gold eyes stare down at you from a face painted as a skull and lips pulled back in a sneer. He sniffs the air. His large hand reaches out and touches the stained fur of your mokomoko. “Little motherfucking pet,” he croons to you, “WHAT THE MOTHERFUCK WERE YOU DOING IN MY LITTLE ROOM OF SCREAMS?”

His voice rises in a shout and your gaze turns into an annoyed glare. You reach up and pat his face, growling at him, “Shut up you utter fool. Go take care of your business.”

He looks you over, the snarl in his throat fading as you continue to stroking his face lightly. “Who’s purple is this. WHO DARES TO USE YOUR BEAUTIFUL MIRACLE FUR AS A RAG FOR THEIR BLOOD.”

“It isn’t blood.” He isn’t yelling now, just becoming more intense as he speaks with you. You continue to pat his face because that keeps him so calm. That never fails to amuse you.

Your mate goes very still under your hand and his eyes narrow into vicious little slits. “What. WHAT THE MOTHERFUCK DO YOU MOTHERFUCKING MEAN.”

You slide your hand down his chest, palm the front of his pants and croon, “You know exactly what I mean, don’t play dumb.”

His hands go after you but you step back and down and he grabs nothing but air. “Go do your job, Highblood. I’ll speak with you later.” You walk away, letting him see the purple on your fur and the way your hair is pulled and knotted in your braid.

His growl is thunderous and only grows louder as he stomps away to his cathedral.

*  *  *

As the sun rises, he finds you curled up half asleep on your fur and drops a large jug at your feet. A liquid sloshes around inside of it. You uncurl and reach down. You unscrew the cap, dip in your fingers and they come back bright purple.

He looms over you, all yellowed fangs and broad, vicious grin. “That the color you like, my little pet? IS THAT YOUR FAVORITE MOTHERFUCKING COLOR?”

“Apparently,” Something inside of you twists up in a painful way as you know this is blood and there is far too much of it for anyone to give and survive. You twist the cap back on but the two fingers you have still purple you slide into your mouth and look up at your mate. Maybe in another world you would have found this purple first. Oh well.

With your other hand you reach up to him and he takes your invitation.

He tries, for hours, but even after he pulls himself to his slime bed to sleep, stained in white and indigo and red blood, and you curl up on your purple-stained fur, you close your eyes and you see violet and gold and taste the ocean in the back of your throat.

* * *

Trolls, they call themselves.

Hatched in eggs from a Mother Grub and raised by white beasts called lusus.

They have their own savage little planet, the children, the _wrigglers_.

Six little legs that are absorbed to be like ribs while they pupate.

Bugs.

They’re _bugs_.

You lay on your back on his pile of things –fur, pelts, bones, hair somewhere down in there it smells awful like blood and bodies but after so many years you’re used to it. You wear a thin purple robe, dark as his blood, and soft as your hair and nothing else. The soft fur of your mokomoko is no longer something you indulge in alone. More often than not your decidedly insane mate takes off with the pelt, wearing it coiled around his shoulders. Sometimes he gets it filthy with blood and paint, but he never argues when you take it and wash it.

Politically you do nothing.

You are the white skinned, silver haired alien consort of a powerful, insane, monster of an enforcer.

The things he does to entertain you, to try and make you smile, are more perverse and violent than anything you have seen any demon do.

The door to his bedroom-respiteblock- opens and in lumbers your dark haired lover.  His horns gleam in the light and his eyes burn. You open your eyes and wrinkle your nose. He smells like so much blood…

You look him up and down and pull back your lip in a sneer. “Brown blood. You got brown blood on my fur. That will take hours to wash out.”

He growls at you, threatening and vicious but you just stare up at him. He will not actually attack you, this you know, because there is something about you that makes him pity you. A quadrant thing. He has explained it to you, had others explain it to you, but you consider it something peculiar and very telling of their society. It’s a strange, rigid structure to romance, to relationships, where your friends are just as likely as your enemy to try and kill you- or at least maim you.

He comes in, drops to his knees and then lays down upon the pile, half on you and half draped on the pile itself. You grunt and shift so you don’t have a mouthful of fur or shoulder and reach a hand up to his face. His paint is messed up as well. You clean up the edges with your fingers. You long ago memorized the mask he wears with your fingertips, as he memorized your markings on your face.

The growling softens as he turns his face towards you. “Motherfuckers couldn’t stop throwing themselves at us,” he speaks softly. You can hear the exhaustion in his voice. You tick back the time in your head and realize you haven’t seen him for at least a month or so. Had it really been so long? You had hardly noticed.

“Are they all disposed of?”

“EVERY LAST MOTHERFUCKING ONE OF THEM.”

“Good.”

He looks at you in that special way of his. That look where he’s surprised you are still here, curled beside him, young as you are, _old_ as you are. His arms move around you and distantly, under all the furs there is the honk of a horn buried deep below. You kiss his shoulder softly and murmur softly to him.

He curls around you, dragging claws through your hair and down your chest and breathes in your scent.

“How is it motherfucking possible, you miracle of mine,” his words are heavy and thick. Sleep is coming quick to him now that he is comfortable with you. “HOW IS A LOWBLOOD LIKE YOU MANAGE TO KEEP MOTHERFUCKING BREATHING LIKE THIS.”

You know he is wondering these things aloud more than asking you. You pet his hair and you smile and he burrows against you. You lick a horn and nuzzle him and purr softly, deep in your chest. “I am a miracle, my mate, a brilliant miracle.”

He begins to sleep, slow and deep even breaths. You close your eyes and not once do you stop stroking his hair.

When his nightmares begin, you croon in his ear and hold him close and wait them out.

Violent alien bugs plagued by nightmares, crippled by their inability to function in a fluid relationship and driven to serve and obey their greatest leader first and then their own interests. These savage and yet technologically advanced creatures that ran amok, scuttling over everything they can touch like cockroaches- and they think themselves the superior race?

The very thought amuses you.

* * *

He’s old now.

With thick arms and long hair and eyes half closed, he sits with his chin on his knuckles and dried blood forgotten on his boots. You stand, or sit, at his side, from time to time because you’re bored. Because you’re tired. Because you have been with him for so many years.

He looks at you and the anger is there and so is the wonder. The cathedral is empty except for him, except for you. The last of the day’s cullings have been dragged away. He reaches out and touches your shoulder. His eyes go to the white you wear, the red, they narrow at the violet against your skin. You have never forgotten. You have not let him forget either.

“You have almost always been good to me my motherfucking pet.” His anger twists into a vicious grin, “I HAVE ALMOST ALWAYS BEEN ABLE TO TRUST YOU TO BE GOOD TO A MOTHERFUCKER WHEN HE NEEDED IT. And all the time that I have aged, slowly, but I have aged. BUT A SILVER HAIRED MOTHERFUCKER CANT BE BOTHERED TO LOOK ANY MOTHERFUCKING OLDER CAN HE?”

You lean into his touch and you smirk. “No. No I cannot. How impudent of me.”

His finger twists into the cloth and claws cut the fabric. He pulls it down from your shoulder, white pulling back to show more of the violet and he snarls at you, “Why does a motherfucker do me such injustice as to REMOVE MY MOTHERFUCKING SYMBOL FROM HIS BODY?”

You do smile this time, just a little thing, “Can’t you smell it, my mate? Death clings to you like a cloak. Not the death you bring about to others, but your very own death. You are going to die.”

He looks at you, stares into your eyes, tries to see into your mind. “After all these years, AFTER ALL THESE MOTHERFUCKING YEARS ALL YOU CAN SAY TO A MOTHERFUCKER IS THAT? You wear these colors that don’t belong to me THAT I MOTHERFUCKING HATE SO MOTHERFUCKING MUCH right before I’m supposed to up and fucking die? WHAT KIND OF MATESPRIT ARE YOU MOTHERFUCKING TRYING TO BE?”

You reach down and touch his face. He looks at you with his tired eyes. He is so viciously intense with his words, but his eyes. They are tired.

“This is how it was always going to end, you just didn’t know it.” You lean in, press a kiss to his forehead. Those tired eyes close.

“Is that right? AM I TO DIE AT THE HAND OF THE MOST PITIFUL BROTHER I HAVE EVER HELD IN MY HANDS?”

“No, child,” you croon to him, kissing his closed eyes, “You’re going to go out the way few of your kind ever manage to and the way that I never will. You are going to die of old age.”

He grunts, it sounds like a honk, and he chuckles. “Then come sit in my lap. YOU NEVER WERE AGAINST GIVING A MOTHERFUCKER SOME COMFORT SO COME GIVE IT TO ME NOW.”

You step around and then slide into his lap. You touch his face and let him burrow against your neck. He holds you tightly and whispers, “This is really the end. THIS REALLY IS THE MOTHERFUCKING END.”

Long fingers run through his hair, untangling the knots. You rub the base of his horn in the way that he likes and he grumbles and holds you tighter.

You lose track of time, the longer you hold him in place. Eventually his breath becomes shorter, farther between. Eventually, it stops all together.

Yet his arms are tight around your body, he doesn’t dare let you go, even in death.

When you finally extract yourself from his grip and get out of his lap, you consider this troll. This creature, this alien, that you shared a pile with, your body with. Large and ominous and yet capable of tender touches and wonder filled eyes. You pose him on his throne, shoulders back on the black stone, his forearms resting on the sides, his fingers curled over the skulls that make up the end of the throne’s arms.

You smooth his clothing, fix the smudges on his face and then you smile. You turn, straightening your clothing, and walk from the cathedral.

You have to go see an empress about a ship.

And a little blue planet far, far away. 


End file.
